Steel and Valor: An Epic Military Fantasy Novel (The Silent Champions Book 3)

by Andy Peloquin

  Aravon turned to Rangvaldr. “Seiomenn?”

  Rangvaldr shrugged. “No reason the holy stones won’t work on horses as well as humans.” Even with the mask concealing his face, exhaustion darkened his eyes and dragged at his shoulders. “But I’ll need to rest a few hours before using them again. All that healing back at Hangman’s Hill took it out of me..”

  “That settles it.” Aravon smiled behind his mask; now he had an excuse to force the still-healing Belthar and Skathi to rest. “We find somewhere to rest until the third hour of the morning.” He turned to Colborn. “Think you can come up with something?”

  Colborn stiffened, but he nodded. “I know just the place.” A grim tone echoed in his voice. “Someplace the Eirdkilrs will never look for us.”

  Chapter Three

  “What in the bloody hell kind of place is this?” Noll’s snarled question echoed off the high stone walls of the cave. “And what’s that god-awful smell? Belthar forget to change his socks again?”

  “It is called a Hefjakumbl.” Rangvaldr’s voice rang with a grim note. “A Sacred Tomb of the Deid.”

  Aravon shot a questioning glance at Colborn. Shadows as deep and dark as those filling the cave hovered in the man’s ice-blue eyes, and his shoulders were tense, his posture at once wary, nervous, and solemn. He alone made no move to cover his nostrils as they led their horses deeper into the thick stench of rot and decay that hung in the cave.

  The mounts’ exhaustion had given way to anxiety as Colborn guided them up the short, grassy incline that separated the hunting path below from the rocky trail that led through the cliffs to the hidden mouth of the cave. Only the horses’ uneasy stomping and snorting had warned Aravon of anything amiss—he hadn’t seen the dark entrance until they’d nearly been right on top of it. While he welcomed the seclusion of their refuge, the heavy stench of blood unnerved him.

  It wasn’t the fresh blood of battle, even the dried, crimson-stained mud of land that had been a field of combat hours before. Not the stench of a Mender’s tent where men bled to death or screamed beneath the agony of a physicker’s saw. No, this was the stink of blood long ago gone dry and turned to dust beside rotting bones. So much blood that the foul odor hung like a permanent miasma over the cavern.

  The mouth of the cave was broad—ten feet across and nearly as tall—and opened onto a tunnel that led deeper into the heart of the cliff into which it was carved. Crude tools had hewn the aperture, as evidenced by the rough walls and ceiling, the uneven floor. A floor that bore stains far darker than the red sandstone of the tunnel itself.

  Yet there was nothing crude about the gentle blue glow that filled the tunnel. Gemstones had been set into the wall at precise intervals, lighting the path like the torches of a funeral procession. With every step that Colborn led them deeper into the tunnel, the oppressive feeling of death weighed heavier on Aravon’s shoulders.

  The tunnel ran for only ten yards before it widened to a high-vaulted chamber carved from the same stone. Forty feet tall and as circular as the skill of primitive stonemasons permitted, the room held twelve black stone pillars anchored to the walls. Atop each pillar was set another gemstone, as large as a man’s fist and glowing with the same blue light that emanated from Rangvaldr’s holy stones. Iron chains as thick as Belthar’s forearm hung from the pillars.

  Had Aravon any doubts about the cavern’s true purpose until that moment, the five-foot-tall pile of bleached and whitened bones in the middle of the circular chamber dispelled them. The dark, rust-brown stains splattering every inch of the floor and walls could only be blood—the death of victims or sacrifices beyond counting, far more than could account for the amassed skeletal remains.

  “Keeper’s teeth!” Skathi hissed. She rounded on Colborn. “And this is where you want to spend the night?”

  Snarl gave a little whining bark and slunk back up the tunnel, amber eyes dark. Almost as if he could sense the haunted, sinister air that hung like a pall over the cavern.

  “Not if I had any other choice.” Colborn removed his mask, revealing a grim, dark expression made all the more ominous by the soft cerulean light emanating from the glowing stones. “But we’re safe here. Even if the Eirdkilrs stumbled across this place, they wouldn’t enter.”

  “To them,” Rangvaldr intoned, “this is a holy place.”

  Aravon’s eyes narrowed. The stench alone sickened him, but the grisly sight of the blood and bones filled him with loathing. There was nothing holy about this place.

  “What exactly is a Hevya…Hevy…Hev…” Noll tried, then finally settled on, “a Sacred Tomb? Looks more like an abattoir than any temple I’ve been in.”

  “That’s because the rituals of our ancestors were far bloodier than those of our people today.” Rangvaldr had removed his mask and now looked to Colborn, as if asking for permission. At the Lieutenant’s nod, he began to speak in the ringing, ceremonial tone of Seiomenn.

  “Once, the people of Fehl would offer sacrifice to their gods. But these were not the gods known to us today. These were older gods.” Rangvaldr’s eyes darkened to the deep green of a storm-tossed field. “Bloodier gods, gods of war, death, and suffering. The ancient Fehlans believed that only sacrifice would appease the gods. Sacrifices of their first-born child, their most beautiful daughter, or the strongest warrior of the clan. Now, we know such practices are folly, but before they were done away with, countless thousands were offered up to the gods.” Distaste twisted his face, and he shook his head. “The Eirdkilrs still cling to many of these ancient ways. The Tolfreadr is one such ritual.”

  Aravon’s eyebrows shot up. “Ritual?” Acid churned in his stomach. “That was bloody murder!”

  “Indeed.” Rangvaldr nodded. “Yet to the Eirdkilrs, it is both punishment of the defeated and a sacrifice to Bani, the Mighty Slayer. A god of death and suffering, once worshipped by the Tauld who seek entrance to their twisted version of Seggrholl by attaining more kills than their comrades. Only the bloodiest Eirdkilrs sit at the feasting table in Bani’s afterlife.”

  Aravon’s face twisted into a snarl. They certainly live up to that belief well enough!

  Rangvaldr’s eyes darkened as he looked around. He stepped closer to the black stone pillar and reached out gingerly to touch its smooth, almost glassy surface. “It seems the Deid, like the Eyrr, keep their Hefjakumbl as a remembrance of who we once were.” His face grew solemn. “A way to remind ourselves that we have put such barbarism far in our past, yet not so far behind us that we could not become these savages once more.”

  “Not that far behind you, eh?” Noll was crouched beside the largest of the pillars, which stood opposite the cavern’s entrance. On the floor lay a charred and blackened corpse with four legs. The blood staining the crude floor around the body appeared far fresher than the ancient stains darkening stone.

  Rangvaldr nodded. “The animals are a part of our remembrance of our barbaric past. They give their lives in gratitude to Nuius, Olfossa, and the other gods of Fehl in place of humans. And in doing so, remind us that we are not the beasts that once held ceremonies in places like this.”

  Animal sacrifice was a familiar practice—at least four of the thirteen priesthoods of the Princelands indulged in similar rituals. Yet, surrounded by human bones, bloodstained stone, and the eerie shadows cast by the glowing gemstones, it felt far ghastlier than the public offerings to Kiro, the Master, made in Icespire’s Sanctuary Court. A shiver that had nothing to do with the cold of the cave slithered down Aravon’s spine.

  “One more good thing about this place,” Colborn said from beside him. “It’s dry and out of the wind.”

  “There’s that mercy, at least.” Skathi snorted. “Even if we’re sleeping among the dead.”

  “Uhh, Seiomenn.” Belthar’s rumbling voice echoed from the tomb’s entrance. “We’re not…disturbing anything, right?” His unmasked face had gone pale, drawn with worry. “We won’t wake up among any…” He swallowed. “Ghosts?”

  Ra
ngvaldr’s face creased into a kindly smile, but Noll spoke before the Seiomenn did.

  “You’ve heard the story of the Bonewalkers, right?” The scout’s face was serious, a mask of devout solemnity. “The spirits of murdered innocents, who refuse to pass on to the Sleepless Lands, but instead cling to their bones, watching their flesh wither and turn to dust before their spectral eyes. Until, their final fiber falls away and the Bonewalkers are untethered to find victims among the living.”

  Belthar’s face whitened even more, his eyes going wide and darting toward the pile of skulls, ribs, and leg bones in the middle of the floor. “Uh, th-that can’t be true, right?” Panic tinged his voice. “Right?”

  “Watcher’s beard, Noll!” Skathi threw up her hands. “That’s just cruel.”

  Noll’s solemn expression cracked and he dissolved in a fit of mocking laughter. “But his face!” His howls echoed off the cave walls. “That look was priceless!”

  Rolling his eyes, Colborn turned to Belthar. “No, Belthar. There are no ghosts here.”

  “The spirits of those sacrificed here have gone to Seggrholl.” Rangvaldr spoke in utter seriousness. “Only their bones linger, and while I would prefer not to disturb those earthly remains, we have naught to fear from any ghosts.”

  Belthar relaxed, the tension draining from his face.

  Rangvaldr’s brow furrowed in thought. “But the draugr, on the other hand…”

  His stern expression cracked before he could finish his sentence, and Noll howled louder as Belthar stiffened.

  “Swordsman’s elbows, not you, too!” Skathi snarled. “And here I thought being Seiomenn was supposed to make you wise.”

  Rangvaldr chuckled and shook his head. “That was never included in the job description.”

  Colborn didn’t join in the revelry. He, too, had removed his mask, revealing a grim, shadowed expression. He gave the pile of bones a wide berth, casting occasional glances toward the cave entrance. Instinct shrieked at him to flee from this place of horrors and death. In that moment, bearing witness to the atrocities mankind could wreak on its own in the name of the gods, he couldn’t fault Belthar’s unease.

  Aravon gave in to the desire to leave, and strode past Colborn to where Zaharis waited with the horses near the cavern entrance. The Secret Keeper had lifted the Duke’s body down from its place on Aravon’s horse and now crouched beside it. His hands moved deftly as he tugged the arrows from Duke Dyrund’s cloak-wrapped corpse and replaced the dried white natron he’d used to preserve the flesh. He looked up as Aravon’s boots scuffed on the stone beside him.

  “You did good, keeping him out of the river,” Zaharis signed one-handed. “Water speeds up decay, and without proper embalming mixtures, there’s only so much I can do to slow the rotting.”

  Aravon’s gut clenched at the sight of the new wounds in the Duke’s pale, cold flesh. Deep, bloodless gashes and puncture marks left by the Eirdkilr arrows. The man that had meant so much to him appeared more like a hunk of butchered ham than the vibrant, strong warrior he’d been in life.

  “Will he…” He swallowed; forming the words around the lump in his throat proved difficult. “Can he make it to the Princelands?”

  Zaharis stood and gave Aravon a slow nod. “With the Ashweed I mixed in, the natron will preserve his body for five days, maybe a week,” he signed. “But what will be left to bury…” He trailed off, his fingers remaining silent a long moment. “Would it not be better to lay him to rest now, while his body is still whole?”

  Aravon hesitated. “Perhaps.” He let out a slow breath, sorrow burning a hole in his chest. “But he deserves far better than being buried in some unmarked grave in the middle of nowhere. He deserves a proper funeral in state in Eastfall or Icespire, where the people who loved him can pay their final respects. His death is not mine alone to mourn.”

  “As you say, Captain.” Kindness sparkled in the Secret Keeper’s dark eyes. “I will do everything I can to preserve him until we can return him home.”

  “Thank you, Zaharis.” Aravon’s voice came out hoarse, quiet.

  The Secret Keeper placed a hand on Aravon’s shoulder, then he slipped past and down the tunnel to enter the bloodstained cavern.

  For long moments, Aravon stood and silently stared down at the cloth-wrapped body. Even now, hours later, his mind still struggled to accept the truth. Not that the Duke was dead—the evidence of his eyes was undeniable. But the truth that he’d never see the Duke smiling, striding toward him, hear his ringing laugh or his kind, wise words, feel the warmth and strength in his grip. Aravon had suffered enough losses in his life—his mother, Legionnaires under his command, Garnet Battalion’s Sixth Company, Draian the Mender—to know the sting of death, but this one…this one stung far, far worse than he’d expected.

  “Captain.” Colborn’s quiet voice sounded behind him.

  Aravon turned to find the Lieutenant had left the cavern and now stood at his elbow.

  “You need to eat.” Colborn held out a small bundle.

  Aravon took it with a grateful nod; though he had little appetite, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had food.

  Colborn gave him a wry grin, yet his smile held a hint of tightness, the grim edge of unease. “I know the surroundings aren’t the most appetizing, but we’ll be safe until we move on.”

  “Thank you,” Aravon said in a quiet voice.

  Colborn nodded and turned to go.

  “Colborn.”

  The word stopped the Lieutenant in his tracks, and he glanced over his shoulder at Aravon.

  “Saerheim,” Aravon said. “You prepared for what we’re going to face there?”

  Every muscle in Colborn’s heavy, high-browed face went rigid, his shoulders tightening. “Sir?”

  Aravon raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t miss how you reacted when the Duke spoke of stopping at Saerheim. And how furious you were when the Deid backed out of battle.”

  Colborn’s brow furrowed and his ice-blue eyes grew dark. “Oh.”

  “I know I never asked—seemed the kind of thing you weren’t ready to talk about before.” Aravon glanced over Colborn’s shoulder toward the sacrificial cavern. They stood alone, out of earshot of the rest of their company. “But if we’re headed to Saerheim, I need to know you’ll be able to handle running into your clan. Your family.”

  Colborn’s reaction told Aravon he’d hit the target dead-center. The word “family” struck the Lieutenant like a physical blow, eliciting a sharp intake of breath and tightening the muscles of his jaw.

  “You said they shunned you, treated you like an outsider.” Aravon spoke in a quiet voice, his tone gentle. “That couldn’t have been easy to deal with. Especially given the way your father treated you.”

  “I’ll be fine, Captain.” A wall had gone up in Colborn’s eyes—the same barrier that had been there when they’d first met back in Camp Marshal. “Just another day on the job and all.”

  “Don’t.” Aravon shook his head. “Don’t feed me horse piss and call it honeywine.” He stepped closer to the Lieutenant. “If anyone understands the scars that sort of thing can leave, it’s me. I’m not doubting you—never have, and never will—but I want to make sure the burden’s not too heavy to bear. And to make sure you know you don’t carry it alone.”

  Colborn’s eye twitched and his shoulders tightened, his spine going rigid. He’d opened up to Aravon after the battle at Rivergate, and again on the night he’d nearly died in an Eirdkilr ambush. Yet, for a moment, it seemed he would once again retreat into the hardened protective shell—a shell he’d doubtless been forced to develop over years of abuse and mistreatment by the father that hated his very existence.

  After a long second, however, Colborn blew out his breath and let his shoulders fall. “Truth, Captain?”

  Aravon nodded. “Always.”

  “I swore I’d never go back there. Never step foot on ground shared by people who despised me so much they refused to treat me as family.” The Lieu
tenant’s face twisted into a grimace. “My mother’s brothers, even her own father, they treated me like cow dung to be scraped off their boot. A stain, just as my father named me.”

  Aravon’s brow furrowed. “The name Colborn—”

  “From my mother. Means ‘burning fire’ in Fehlan. But my other name, the one given me by my father. Alsvartar.” Colborn gave a bitter, harsh laugh. “That’s Fehlan for ‘pure black’. A reminder of what I was to him. And, it turns out, to my mother’s family as well.”

  Aravon nodded. “I heard a similar tune most of my life, sung by the mighty General Traighan.” He glanced down at the Duke’s body. “If it wasn’t for Duke Dyrund…” He swallowed. “The man I am today is mostly thanks to him.”

  “You got lucky.” Colborn’s lip curled into a snarl. “The rest of us, well, we just get to wade through our shite and hope the stink doesn’t cling.” He gestured around him. “You know how I found out about this place? My mother’s father and brothers brought me here, showed me that pile of bones back there, and said I was lucky the Deid had given up the old ways, else I might have joined them. Or they’d have slit my throat and fed me to their pigs. A real ray of sunshine, they were.”

  Aravon’s eyes widened a fraction. Such cruelty!

  Fire blazed in Colborn’s ice-blue eyes and he clenched his fists by his sides. “Thanks to them, I learned I was the only one I could count on in this world. That’s how I’ve lived my life ever since.” A wry smile twisted his lips. “Right up until you and Duke Dyrund proved that a man’s family doesn’t always share his blood.”

  Aravon placed a hand on Colborn’s shoulder. “Funny thing, I was just thinking the same.”

  Colborn raised an eyebrow.

  “Outside of Mylena and my sons, the Duke was the closest thing I had to real family. Losing him…” Aravon trailed off, and long moments passed before the sorrow retreated enough that he could speak. “His death is a battle I’ll be fighting for a long time to come. But I won’t be drowned beneath my grief because even though he’s gone, he gave me something to cling to. All of you. People who care not just about the mission or earning the Prince’s coin, but about watching over each other. Protecting each other, just like a real family does. No matter how much shite we’ve waded through in the past, at least we’re no longer in it alone.”